In My Veins
by domina tempore
Summary: Summary: "I worked SO hard to be you!" Neal shouted. "Do you know what it did to me, learning that everything I believed was a lie?" Companion to 'Of Monsters and Men'.
1. 1 Caffrey Turned Right

**White Collar: **_In My Veins_

_Disclaimer: White Collar and all of its characters and locations, etc. belong to their respective owners; I'm just borrowing. No copyright infringement intended! (though I would be deeply proud to work on this show)_

_Author's Note: This story came out of a Neal argument that I wrote immediately following two of the longest, most draining days of work that I've ever experienced. When I'd finished I realized that I wanted to know WHY he was in that place, so I went back to the beginning and wrote around that. This is also one of the most difficult pieces that I've ever written. _

_Many thanks to my dear, dear friend and White Collar co-conspirator __**Drama Queen of Whump**__ over on the Psychfic forums; she was with me through this entire project and has helped me more than I can say. Also, to __**Jenn1984 **__here, who read through this when it was done and helped me with flow and things. Truly don't know what I'd do without these girls._

_Oh, and this is set somewhere after season 3, assuming that the whole cliffhanger thing works out (which it will because otherwise there wouldn't be a show)._

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**CHAPTER ONE: **_Caffrey Turned Right_

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Peter Burke enjoyed breakfast. He remembered describing it once as "this crazy ritual I do every morning when I sit down with my lovely wife and my delicious cereal, and no thoughts of Neal Caffrey." At least, he thought he'd said that. No, he had definitely said that. So why was the blue-eyed menace of a man once again interrupting him with a smile that was far too friendly, and a worrying look in his eyes?

He glanced at Elizabeth, who just shrugged and took another bite of her breakfast. With a sigh, he turned back to his friend. "Spit it out, Neal. What do you want?"

"Want?" Neal repeated, chuckling. "What makes you think that I _want_ anything?"

"You're interrupting my breakfast, Neal; don't screw with me. What's up?"

"Nothing!" he insisted. "Actually, I was wondering if I could have a few days off."

"Why?"

"I thought you'd like that! A weekend where you get to do whatever you want - work cases I'm not allowed to touch, spend time with your utterly ravishing wife," he winked at Elizabeth, who blushed and grinned, "and best of all, I won't be around for breakfast again until at least Monday."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "You're pitching this way too hard," he decided. "I don't like it."

Neal sat back and threw his hands in the air. "There's no pleasing you sometimes!" he complained. "Elizabeth, please make a date with him or something so that I can take a break -"

"Hey, now don't you go turning your whining, begging, puppy-dog eyes on my wife," Peter snapped his fingers in Neal's face. "I already have a dog. Fine, fine, take the weekend off. Maybe you can use the time to catch up on some of that paperwork that you took home two weeks ago and "forgot" about."

"Peter, what is the point of a _break_ if I'm still doing work? That's not a break."

"Not my problem." Peter took a sip of orange juice. "Look, I don't care what you do this weekend, as long as it doesn't involve you being in my house at meal-times. Okay?"

Neal grinned. "Excellent. Thank you, Peter."

"Nothing illegal, either!" Peter warned, gesturing with his cereal spoon. "I don't care how Mozzie rationalizes it."

"You have my word," Neal promised, crossing his heart in an exaggerated motion.

Peter shook his head as his friend walked out whistling, hands in his pockets. "Why do I feel like I just gave him permission to do something very stupid?"

Elizabeth touched his arm. "Honey, Neal works hard for you. How many cases have the two of you dealt with in the last month?"

"Six," Peter admitted grudgingly.

"A record in the office, if I remember correctly."

Peter sighed. "Something like that. So what?"

"So, let him have his break, and give him the benefit of the doubt. He's earned it."

"You're just saying that 'cause he told me we should have a date."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Was he wrong?" she asked.

"No..." Peter found himself grinning. "I'll take the day off."

The look of joy on his wife's face as he called Diana to tell her that she was on point for the weekend was almost enough to make him forget about Caffrey's suspicious behavior. Almost. He asked Diana to make sure someone checked up on Neal over the weekend, before hanging up the phone and offering his undivided attention to his wife.

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Neal waited until he was half of a block away from the Burke residence to drop his cheerful facade. He had his weekend, but he still wasn't sure if he was going to go through with the plans he'd been considering. Knowing he had the option made him question his own wisdom.

He debated calling Mozzie for advice, but thought the better of it; he already knew all of the things that his friend would say to him if he explained the situation. It was nothing he didn't already know, and honestly, nothing that he wanted to hear right now. He almost called Sara - was halfway through dialing her number - but couldn't bring himself to send the call. He didn't want her involved in this, either.

What Neal needed was some place to clear his head. He needed to sit and rest and think, and he wanted someplace neutral without any of the baggage that all of his normal haunts carried. Any place would do, really.

It didn't take long to find a cafe that looked quiet enough. He ordered tea instead of coffee - made no effort to flirt with the barrista - and tucked himself into a quiet back booth to run over the last twelve hours.

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He'd worked late last night. Peter had been determined to crack their current case before the weekend, and if Peter was staying late, that meant by default, Neal was staying late, too. By the time he'd made it back to June's house he was sore, tired, and his red-rimmed eyes wanted nothing more than to close for the next week.

Neal had wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for the next few days, and if June hadn't waited up for him then maybe he would have. But she looked so troubled when he came in that he couldn't ignore it. So he sat down on the couch next to her, accepted the glass of Chardonnay that she offered, and coaxed the story out of her.

"A man came here looking for you today," she began at length. "A couple of hours ago. At first I thought that he might have been a friend of yours from the old days, and that Mozzie had sent him over; but he didn't know who I was talking about."

Neal shrugged. "I don't have many friends left from the old days," he said, "and Mozzie and Alex are the only ones who know that I'm living with you."

June nodded. "I know. And there was something about this man that I didn't like; you and Byron were stand-up criminals, but he wasn't like that. He looked dark, somehow." She sighed. "Anyways, I told him that he had the wrong house, but I could tell he didn't believe me. He told me to let you know that he'd come to see you, and he left you that." She nodded at a cream-colored envelope sitting on the coffee table. "I didn't touch it; for a while I was worried that it might be some kind of trick."

"What changed your mind?" Neal had become concerned as June had continued her story. His land-lady might not be young anymore, but her wits were as sharp as ever; if something was bothering her, he knew to take notice.

It took her longer that it should have to answer his question. "I don't think that he came looking to hurt you," she said finally.

"But you have an idea of why he did come," Neal pressed.

"I do," she nodded again. "His eyes...Neal, it was like looking at you. They were _your_ eyes."

Silence reigned for a few minutes as Neal groped for a response. Conflicting emotions rose in his chest and nearly choked him with their intensity. Through his internal roller-coaster June stayed quiet, holding his hand and keeping him grounded. When the initial wave finally passed, Neal drew in a deep breath. "Do you really think it's him?" he asked. He didn't need to say the word for June to understand.

"I think that if you look in that envelope" she gave a pointed nod, "you'll find out."

It took more willpower than Neal had thought he possessed to do as June suggested. With trembling hands, he lifted the small envelope and slid his finger under the flap. Inside was a plain, unlined note card with several lines written in blocky, familiar handwriting. A time, a date, and a phone number. Neal stared at the card for a long moment, and he could feel June studying his face for clues. He nodded, and she sighed. "How can you tell?" she asked.

"The handwriting," Neal handed her the card. "But even without that, it's still him. The date, May 18th, that's the day that he left. It can't be a coincidence." He shook his head, trying to sort through everything that he was feeling. His eyes were drawn once again to that card. "What do I do?" he wondered out loud.

"Do?" June repeated. "I think that you should talk to him. Call him and set up a meeting, but do it on your terms. I know what that man put you through, but he is your father; he owes you an explanation, at least."

"What if I'm not ready to hear it?"

June took both of Neal's hands in hers and forced him to meet her eyes. "Then you make sure he gets what he deserves."

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Neal hadn't been able to sleep that night, after all. Endless questions and debates and ideas chased each other around his brain, making his head hurt. He'd thought that Kate's death was the hardest thing that he would ever have to deal with in his life, but he wasn't sure if he could handle this. His father was a wanted man still - the elder Caffrey had never been caught and tried for his crimes - but Neal balked at the idea of turning him in before he'd conned an apology out of him, or at least an explanation. _something_. A part of him, too, though, didn't want the inevitable disappointment of whatever the man would say to him.

He ran a hand through his hair, and groaned. He _hated_ this. There were very few things in his life that Neal wasn't sure of, but his father was one of them, which he hated even more. He didn't want to be effected by this. Having lived with it for so many years, he resented the unspoken ultimatum that his father had given him with is message. _Talk to me today, or never._ Neal needed more than a few sleepless hours to consider the situation; it wasn't fair to expect this of him! He needed more time.

He looked up at the old-fashioned clock on the far wall. _Five to nine._ There were exactly three minutes left to make his choice.

Neal stood up and walked outside. In one direction, there was the way back to June's house. Home. Safety. Familiarity. In the opposite direction, at the end of the block, a payphone, and whatever else came with dialing the number on that note card in his pocket. An impossible choice.

Neal Caffrey turned right.

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_A/N: Next bit should be up in a day or so. (:_


	2. 2 The Second Ring

_A/N: Wow! I am utterly blown away by the response that this story has sparked so far. It's barely been up for two days, and it has already become my most-alerted story to date. The sheer number of profile views that I've received since posting is utterly staggering to me. I want to give a HUGE thank you to everyone who left such wonderful reviews (:, as well as everyone who favorited and alerted and anyone at all who has read this. I appreciate you all so much, and you have no idea what it means to me. I want to hug every one of you. _

_Little side-note: the title "In My Veins" comes from the song that I streamlined throughout the writing process. Random fact._

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**CHAPTER TWO: **_The Second Ring_

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The phone picked up on the second ring. "You made the right choice, kid."

Neal gritted his teeth, a sour taste in his mouth. "Cut the crap," he snapped into the phone. "What are you doing here?"

"Now, Neal, is that any way to talk to your father?"

"I don't know, I never really had one to practice on."

A pause on the line. "Okay, I deserved that. Now can we talk like adults? I came to New York to see you."

"You're a wanted criminal," Neal reminded him. "Do you think that I haven't looked into you since I found out the truth? I could call the feds on you right now, and you wouldn't make it out of the city."

"You're not going to do that," his father said with absolute confidence. "Not before we have a chance to talk. I want to see you."

Neal bit back a bitter response. It was his turn to hesitate, taking a deep breath as his mind ran back to June's advice from the night before. He made a decision. "Okay, fine. We can talk. But we're going to do it on _my_ terms this time, not yours. You upset my landlady last night."

His father laughed. "Son, that woman would probably take a bullet for you. You're lucky."

"I know," Neal said simply. "Now, if you want to talk, this is how it's gonna go..."

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Twenty minutes later, Neal arrived home to find June waiting for him. "Well?" she asked when he walked through the door. "What did you decide to do?"

Neal sighed. "I asked Peter for the weekend off," he shrugged, "and I have a meeting tomorrow morning, at the end of my leash. I'm gonna see him, whether I'm ready for this or not."

June took his hand. The look on her face was motherly and proud, and it started a warm swell in Neal's chest. "I'll help you with whatever you need," she promised. "I used to help Byron back in the old days when he was running cons."

"Yeah, only this will be real," Neal reminded her.

She nodded. "Yes, it will. Did you happen to tell Peter why you were taking the weekend off?"

Neal frowned, thrown off by the abrupt switch of topics. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, you _are_ going into this more or less alone. I'd feel a lot better about the situation if I knew he had your back, on the off-chance that things go badly. I would if I could, but these bones aren't as young as they used to be..."

"I don't want him involved in this, not if he doesn't have to be," Neal insisted. "If things change, it might be another story; but right now this is something that I have to deal with on my own."

She sighed. "Whatever you say, Neal; but I think you should reconsider. Peter is your friend, you know. He can help you."

"I know. It's because we're friends that I don't want him involved. Trust me, it's safer this way."

June didn't look convinced, but she didn't seem inclined to argue with him, either. After a moment of quiet that bordered on awkward, she clapped her hands together once. "Alright," she said. "We have one whole day to come up with a plan for you; let's make it count. And I hope you don't think I'm being shallow, but Byron had a particular suit that I'd like to give to you for the occasion; it was his favorite for clandestine meetings."

Relieved that she wasn't going to press the issue of telling Peter, Neal grinned as he followed her upstairs. "I do always say, 'dress to impress'," he said, only half joking. He wasn't about to admit it, but there was still a little boy inside of him that _did_ want to impress Nicholas Caffrey.

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Peter and Elizabeth were only halfway through their Sunday morning breakfast when the agent's work phone rang. He made a face as he checked the time - almost ten o'clock - and the caller ID. It was Diana. With an apologetic glance at his wife, he answered the call. "You'd better have a good reason for interrupting my meal," he warned, doing his best not to sound irritable. Diana wouldn't have called without a reason.

"Caffrey's outside of his radius."

Peter's spoon clattered back into his bowl. His heart sank; so much for another quiet day with his wife. "For how long?" he demanded.

"Only a few minutes. He hasn't moved very far, either; just enough past the boundary to set alarms ringing. It's almost like he doesn't know he's doing it."

"No, this is Neal we're talking about," Peter shook his head, a useless gesture over the phone. "He knows."

"But why would he stay there if he knows he's out of bounds?"

Peter frowned thoughtfully. "Diana, do you remember the very first case we worked with Neal?"

"Yes. Why?"

"How did we catch the guy?"

"...We followed Neal into his hideout," she recalled, her voice rising.

"Exactly!" Peter praised. "He knows how to get our attention; my guess is that something is going down right where he's hanging out."

"What's the order, boss?"

"Scare up a team and take a ride down to his location. Not close enough to spook whoever he's with, but close enough to assist if needed. I'll be down at the office in five..." It was only then that he caught Elizabeth's raised eyebrow and crossed arms. "Um, Diana? I'm gonna have to meet you on location."

"Forget to talk to Elizabeth?"

He cut his eyes towards his wife. "Yeah."

"Understood. I'll head out right now and meet you there, alright?"

"Thank you." Peter hung up the phone quickly and turned to his wife. "Caffrey's outside of his radius," he explained with a nervous chuckle.

"I heard.

Peter cringed. "I've gotta go down and check it out... But it won't take long, I promise! An hour, maybe two at the most..."

"Go," Elizabeth sighed, waving her hands to shoo him off. "But if you take any longer than that, I'm leaving you for Jones. Got it?"

Peter grinned; if she was teasing him, she couldn't be too upset about the interruption. "Thanks, hon. I'll be back soon, I promise."

"Might as well bring Neal with you, if you don't have to arrest him," Elizabeth called after him as he headed out the door. "Tell him he owes me a bottle of wine for this!"

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Neal arrived nearly an hour early at the warehouse where he and his father had agreed to meet. He pushed up the cuff of his sleeve to check the antique Rolex on his wrist - a gift from June for the occasion - and frowned at the time displayed there. _Nine o'clock._ He sighed, tugged the cuff back into place with more force than necessary. This, he realized, was going to be a long wait.

Vibrating with nervous energy, he paced the length of the wide, empty room as far as his anklet would allow. He'd calculated his radius when he first received the tracking device, and he knew that his leash ended someplace in the middle of this concrete floor.

Counting to himself, Neal concentrated on making smooth, measured steps back and forth across the room, the whole time running words over in his head. He'd repeated the things that he was planning to say so many times that he was practically sick of them, and he experimented now with different phrases, new variations of the same sentiments. One after another, he discarded each new idea and returned to his original plan. For a moment, anyways. There were so many things that he wanted to say. So much that he _could_ say, if only he had the time. But there would never be enough time in the world for all of this.

He had to stop thinking so hard; it was going to drive him insane before the man ever showed up. Neal stopped pacing and took a few deep, even breaths. He adjusted his cuffs again, re-buttoned his suit, and straightened his dark tie. Next, he removed his hat, considered it with narrowed eyes. He liked the hat since the beginning; it had become a part of him now, as much as his startling blue eyes or his pickpocket's hands. But it felt wrong to wear it for this, somehow. He knew that he looked younger with the hat off, more vulnerable; and he wanted his father to see that the child he'd abandoned had never really disappeared. With great care, he left the hat in a corner and resumed his pacing.

Hands running through his hair, Neal re-arranged his thoughts again.

_A/N: Thank you for sticking with me so far. The third and possibly final part should be up in a few days! :D_


	3. 3 My Father's Son

_A/N: And again, I am overwhelmed by the support that I've received for this. Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, favoriting, alerting, etc. It means the world to me. (:_

_The second half of this chapter is the scene that I originally wrote that sparked everything. It starts with my summary line, "I worked SO hard to be you!", and goes through til the end._

_7/25/12: Updated to be closer to canon, considering what we learned in "Diminishing Returns". _

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**CHAPTER THREE: **_My Father's Son_

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"I wondered if you would actually show up today."

Neal looked up at the sound of the familiar voice, and picked the shape of a man out from the shadows at the far end of the warehouse. "I had the same questions about you," he admitted. He stopped pacing and spread his hands, showing himself to be unarmed. In return, the man copied his gesture, walking into a square of light spilling through a crack in the corrugated metal ceiling. Neal studied every inch of him, momentarily lost for words as he took in the man he had not seen since he was a child.

James "Caffrey" was shorter than Neal remembered, though still taller than his son. He had the same dark hair and crystal eyes that faced Neal in the mirror every day, but his body was broader. Thicker. He had large hands made rough by years of use. His clothes were clean and new like he'd just walked out of the store with them - which might have been entirely possible - and his shiny black shoes didn't have a single scuff on them. Stubble sprouted from a chin not shaved for several days, making wrinkles stand out. A bulge on his hip, under his jacket suggested that the elder man had not come unarmed. _Of course not. He used to make a living shooting at people._

The spell was broken when the older man, finished studying his son, took a step forward with opened arms. "Neal..."

"I agreed to see you," Neal said shortly, stopping his father in his tracks. "I didn't agree to let you come near me."

"Son, what's going on? I thought that you of all people would be a little more...open-minded, shall we say? I'm not the only one in the family with a record. What's your weakness? It must have been something huge to change the stubborn little boy I remember who wanted to be a cop."

Neal shrugged. "Art," he admitted simply.

"Art?" James repeated, a distant look in his eyes. "Yeah, I remember you used to win prizes at school for art shows... Makes sense that the passion matured."

"Yeah, I guess. And yours was shooting, I remember. How did that happen, Dad? How did you go from shooting at paper targets to murdering people?"

"Now, that's not what it was, Neal. I didn't just go around shooting people without a reason."

"That's not what I heard."

A moment's pause. Then, a grim chuckle. "You've been talking to her, haven't you?"

"She worked with you," Neal reminded him. "I think she probably knew you better than anyone else. Better than Mom did."

"Hey!" James snapped. "I was loyal to your mother, alright? Let's keep that straight. I loved her."

"Whatever you say," Neal's voice was flat and unconvinced. "Though I gotta ask, if you were so wholly devoted to my mother, then why did you leave? Did you think that we'd just forget the fact that you abandoned us and go on with our lives like everything was okay?"

"And what was my alternative? A life-sentence in prison? Getting shipped off to die in the electric chair? I wasn't about to let that happen. I put too many guys in prison to sugar-coat my chances."

"You could have at least told me the truth."

James shook his head. "How was I supposed to admit that? And what kind of life would that have been for you, kid? Visiting your father once or twice a year from behind bullet proof glass?" A muscle in his cheek jumped. "At least what I did gave you a hero to remember instead of a felon. I hoped you'd turn out better than me."

Neal felt something in his chest snap. Half-blinded by the sudden tempest inside, he jerked forward until he was only a few feet away from Nicholas. "I worked _so_ hard to be you!" he shouted. He felt hot and choked; standing this close in the same room as his father made it hard for him to breathe. "Do you know what that did to me, finding out that everything I'd been told was a lie?" He spread his hands, stuck out his foot so that the tracking anklet showed. "You made me what I am."

"Neal," he father's voice was so much calmer than his. It made him angry. How could the man be so calm? "I've made mistakes, son, I know that; but the man that you wanted to be - the man that you _knew_ - he was good."

"No," Neal shook his head, hair falling in his eyes. He made an effort to quiet his voice. "_No_. I didn't know a man; just another con. I guess I got what I wanted after all, Dad. How about that? Like father, like son, huh?"

James gave a humorless chuckle. "And just how long have you been waiting to say all that to me?" he asked softly. "Does it feel good? Did you miss rebelling against your father as a kid?"

"I don't know, I never tried it. Maybe if I had _had_ one..."

James sighed. "This isn't how I met this to go, Neal. I wanted to talk to you -"

Neal narrowed his eyes, saw the expression mirrored in the older face across the room. "Next time don't bother," he bit out. "I don't want you in my life." He took a deliberate step forward, and had the satisfaction of watching his father flinch. "And I know that there are some things that I just can't erase - lawlessness is in our blood, right? - but I sure don't need to stand here and take your apology for anything more than it is." Another step. "I know your kind. You're not here to say you're sorry for my sake, you're here for yourself. You feel guilty, maybe responsible somehow for the way my life has turned out, and you want to assuage whatever it is that's been making you uncomfortable thinking about me.

"You're right about one thing; it is your fault. All of it. And if you think that I'm going to make this easy on you, that you can come in and say your piece and everything goes away, you're wrong. God knows that I've suffered enough because of the path your lies set me on; you deserve to have some regrets for what you did." A third step, dark and menacing. "Normally, I don't like hurting people; but I'm oddly okay with you being in pain."

"Neal," his father's hand slid under his jacket, and Neal froze as that bulge at his side shifted. "Listen, I'm not here to make amends; I don't expect you to forgive me. But I want you to understand that I'm not the monster that you think I am."

Neal gave a small shrug. "And I'm not your son," he said simply.

He'd barely gotten the words out when the door to the warehouse burst opened, and FBI agents poured in. His father whirled, drawing his gun, then froze. Neal took four steps back, hands held up. He breathed a sigh of relief when Peter charged in with the rest. "Reaction time is a bit slow," he noted in his normal voice as the agent holstered his gun and crossed the warehouse. Neal tipped his head towards his father, who was currently being relieved of his weapon. "Much longer and you would have missed him completely."

"We were wondering why you decided to stand so blatantly just out of bounds," Peter answered, shaking his head. "You do realize that I could arrest you again for doing this? Or I could have you locked up in an insane asylum for taking such a stupid risk!"

"...You're not going to do that though, right?"

"No," Peter grumbled. "But the paperwork here is all on you; don't pretend that you can't forge a report for me. So who is this guy?"

Neal hesitated, just a split second. "His name is Nicholas Staton," he lied, picking out the only alias of his father's that he could remember. It was easier than it should have been. "He's been on the run since before my time."

"Uh-huh." Peter's tone told him that he'd caught the pause. "And why not just call me to pick him up?"

"If he'd seen you coming, he would have run," Neal shrugged. "I knew he was in the business, so I got him alone for you. Got him to pull a gun on the FBI, too; that won't look good for him."

"Nope," Peter shook his head. Neal did his best to keep his tells in check as the agent scrutinized him. "And you expect me to believe that he's just some guy 'in the business', that you don't have any prior connection to him at all? How did you convince him to come alone to meet you?"

"Peter, he's just another criminal," Neal insisted. "Beyond that, he means absolutely nothing to me."

He could tell that Peter wasn't buying his story, but one of the other agents called his name, and with a "this conversation isn't over" point of his finger, his friend left to do his job. Neal had a short-lived moment of relief, until his father caught his eye over the heads of the FBI agents patting him down. There was anger in his gaze, and disappointment, and also something akin to pride, which Neal wasn't sure how to process. Very deliberately, he turned away, walked further back into the warehouse to retrieve his hat.

If one tear happened to escape and hit the felt when he bent to pick it up, Neal would never admit it.

**FIN.**

_A/N: Okay, so here's where you all have a choice. I have an optional epilogue sort of thing that I wrote for this; but it's a bit dry and has a different feel to it than I was going for, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. But if you all want me to, I'm alright with posting it to make you happy. What do you think? Interested?(:_


	4. Epilogue: Concerning Peter

_A/N: Okay, you asked for it! And, as always, I'm overwhelmed by your support. I am honored to have had the chance to share this with you, and I'm so glad that you all liked it. I appreciate everyone one of you more than I can possibly express in one little author's note. Thank you so much!_

_Anyways, just for you, I present my optinoal little epilogue. I really like the IDEA of the scene, but it came out a bit dry compared to what I had in my head. Still, I'm pretty pleased with it. I hope you all like it! _

_And virtual cookies to __**True Love Lives Forever**__, who was the only person who guessed close to what I'd written. (:_

**EPILOGUE: **_ Concerning Peter_

Peter took his time getting to his seat at the far end of the table. He didn't need to, but he wanted a chance to really look at the guy this time; first impressions were so fleeting when making an arrest. Caffrey had been no help; beyond the name, he'd been stupidly tight-lipped and it was driving Peter crazy. That was why he'd memorized what scant information the FBI had been able to dig up on Staton, why he'd arranged for this meeting _without_ telling Neal. He wanted to form his own opinion on this man.

Sliding carelessly into the scratched plastic chair he'd been provided with, Peter took his time arranging himself and the fat FBI file that he'd brought along. It was filled primarily with case reports from the various agents who had been present for Staton's arrest, and topped off with the few pages of details that Diana had scrounged up for him on the man himself. It wasn't a necessary accessory, but it looked intimidating. Peter had learned very early on that in a case like this, appearances could be everything.

"Are you finished?" Nicholas demanded suddenly, slamming his hands down on the table.

Peter grinned. _Good._ He was ruffled. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting your busy schedule of chain-gangs and license-plate making?" he asked.

Staton glared at him. "I can see what you're doing, Agent. I've been on the other side of this table before, I know technique when I see it. You're trying to make me agitated, edgy; more willing to talk so I can get out. But see, I _know_ what you're doing; it's not going to work on me any more than that pile of copy paper is going to scare me into thinking you know my life story. So why don't you cut the _crap_ and tell me why you're really here?"

"Okay." Peter closed the folder and put it aside, folding his hands on the table in its place. "I want to know why you're here, and who you are."

Nicholas shrugged. "I know that your debonair friend with the ankle jewelry already told you my name."

Peter snorted "And we're going to pretend, just for kicks, that 'Nicholas Staton' is your _actual_ name."

Staton rolled his eyes as he continued, his voice droning a way that suggested his words had been over-rehearsed. "I came to the city on personal business – all legal – and I am licensed for my piece."

"Not anymore," Peter reminded him. "You forfeit that right when you pulled it on a dozen FBI agents."

"That was an honest mistake," Staton insisted. "Where I come from, there are a lot of gangs, and I didn't know if Neal had invited friends to the party. Turns out he did, just not who I was expecting."

"Yeah, apparently. But you're suggesting that you didn't trust Neal. Why meet with him?"

There was a half-second pause before Staton's answer, and Peter noted it with interest. "There's only a certain level of trust you can give anyone in his line of work," he explained. "And Neal has no reason to cut me any slack."

"Really?" Peter leaned forward. "Why's that?"

"I did him a wrong turn back in the day," Staton admitted with a shrug. "He never forgave me."

An uncomfortable feeling was beginning to grow in the pit of Peter's stomach, like he knew this man; but he pushed it aside. There would be enough time to puzzle that one out after he'd finished here. "That's a funny thing, see? Caffrey told me that he knew you by reputation only; and if I had to chose, I'd be inclined to trust him. Unless, of course, you could provide some pretty detailed evidence of whatever crazy heist you two pulled together 'back in the day'."

"I never said we worked together," Staton corrected. "A job isn't the only way to do a kid wrong."

Peter narrowed his eyes, stared into Staton's brilliant blue ones as he tried to unravel what _that_ could possibly mean. It was somewhere between the word 'kid' and registering the shade of blue that things clicked into place.

Staton saw it. "Any more questions for me, Agent Burke?" he asked softly.

In an abrupt motion, Peter shoved his chair back and stood up. "That'll be all," he said stiffly. His head was spinning as he left the prison.

Neal had lied to him. He had flat out _lied_, at the same time sending his own father to prison. It didn't add up. On the rare occasions where Neal's father had come up in conversation, Peter had seen longing and hurt in his eyes, not the kind of callous cold-heartedness it took to betray your own family that way. That was not the Neal that Peter knew; he wasn't capable of that kind of hardness. There had to be so much more going on between the two of them than met the eye.

He had to believe it, because otherwise he didn't really know the man at all.

ovo

Neal was already in the office by the time that Peter arrived the next morning. He smiled brightly, tossed his infamous rubber-band ball in the air. "How's it going?" he asked.

Peter caught the ball with a tight smile, and made a choice. "Fantastic," he said. "Just great. Now get your feet off the desk; we've got work to do."

Black shoes swung to the ground. A sharp, snapped-off salute. Blinding smile. "Yes sir!"

Peter shook his head and held his tongue.

This wasn't the time for that battle.

_A/N: Well, there you have it, folks. WE ARE AT THE END. Thank you so much for reading! :D_


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